


Prodigal Sister

by VivereLibri



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Mental Health Issues, implied Nesta Archeron/Cassian - Freeform, non-canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29513463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivereLibri/pseuds/VivereLibri
Summary: prodigal(noun)1: one who spends or gives lavishly and foolishly2: one who has returned after an absencesister(noun)1: a female who has one or both parents in common with anotherHealing is not linear, or straightforward, or clean, or without its setbacks and mistakes. Nesta had been going nowhere in Illyria, had been feeling nothing. But her shell of a heart is still a heart, and when faced with the possibility of saving a life she cannot turn away.This was written prior to ACOSF coming out, but there were so many similarities I had to put it up. Just cuz. More on that in the note inside. But there are NO SPOILERS.
Kudos: 9





	Prodigal Sister

**Author's Note:**

> First off, there are NO SPOILERS for ACOSF here. Though I _am_ posting this because there were a bunch of similarities, so if you wanna be cautious just step away, lol.
> 
> I did a speed read of ACOSF, and...gosh there are so much thoughts about it. Come over to tumblr @thehaemanthus if you wanna know. But that's not the point.
> 
> The point is this story. And Nesta's healing. And a journey I didn't think I understood when I wrote this. I still think I maybe don't. I wrote this in **2018** , handed it off to Nayiri for edits, then sat on it. Nesta is one of the most intriguing and incomprehensible characters to me. Writing her, like I think for many others, is like therapy.
> 
> She is a traumatized woman. She is has power and needs to learn how to use it. She feels left out of the happy family. She was deprived of choices her entire life. She is an older sister who failed to care about her young siblings and belittled one of them-- and this last point has always been the one that hurts the most. Because some people see themselves in Nesta. Others-- like me-- see themselves as Nesta's victim. 
> 
> All this to say that, (well, first I should say there's no Nesta or ANYONE bashing. except maybe a light Rhys bashing. light.) I didn't know if this story was right when I wrote it. I thought I needed to expand and explain and think more about Nesta. But thinking more about Nesta hurts. Justifying and making sense of her actions is rough for me. 
> 
> Then ACOSF came out. And I think I understand her better. And I think this story-- I hope-- was not as off-the-mark as I thought it would be. 
> 
> So, two years later, here we go. No longer canon compliant, the tiniest of edits made a couple of minutes ago. But the bulk of everything and the important details were written years ago.
> 
> I give you, _Prodigal Sister_

Nesta had not made friends in Illyria.

To be fair, she didn’t really make friends anywhere. At all. That held true in the Illyrian camps that she and Cassian visited. She wasn’t the type to be put out about it in the first place, but Cassian didn’t look like he had many friends here either. So she wasn’t even doing anything wrong this time.

It might have made her feel better, had she been able to really feel anything or think about what others thought of her.

The fresh air and activity had revived her enough to care a little more about appearances but little else. She washed more often and was back to looking clean. Harsh, plain, gaunt, and unhealthy maybe, but clean.

Nesta was feeling better. Of course, that might have been because she had abstained from alcohol and males every night.

She might have been broken, but she wasn’t stupid. There wasn’t much alcohol in Illyria, and what there was typically was saved for special occasions. And certainly not for women. _Females_. The fairer sex. Whatever.

The males were off limits too. Not because of Cassian. That had never stopped Nesta before. And some of the males would no doubt be eager to bed their general’s…associate. Their High Lady’s sister. Nesta was smart enough to know those were males to stay away from. Those were the kind of people who weren’t looking for pleasure, but for power. She still valued herself enough not to be used. And certainly not by an overgrown bat.

With no drinking or males to make her feel, Nesta had to find something else to make her feel awake. Alive. Something.

Her bones felt brittle. The activity around her had a way of drawing her life away, until she was nothing but a shell. When there was so much around her, it was all she could do to see.

Cassian was away. He had goaded her in the past days. Pushed her. Cajoled. But he couldn’t fill the emptiness she felt in her soul.

What could make her feel again? What could push her body far enough to spark?

Nesta sat at the bare wooden table. A fire crackled and popped. She flinched. Her limbs didn’t feel like hers. Something in her screamed. But the sound was muffled, choked, smothered by a gray haze. She wanted to speak. She didn’t have a voice.

Warmth radiated from the fireplace, and suddenly it was too hot. Nesta stood, shaky at first. She stumbled, unseeing, to the door. The stares, hisses, suspicious glances tossed her way by the few that were out chased Nesta around the house.

In some other lifetime, Illyria might have been beautiful. Mountains and tress, wide open skies and snow. The scene that would cause fluttering in a breast, inspire a sigh, stirred nothing in Nesta. She fell into one of the great drifts of snow that collected on the side of the house.

The cold was supposed to numb, to soothe burns and smother the sounds of the world. Yet Nesta slowly felt herself shiver and awaken. Not with delight or curiosity.

She could taste the fear like smoke on her tongue.

Wind battered her skin, relentless against something so soft and gentle. Snowflakes swirled and danced, kissing her cheeks and dusting her eyelashes. The cold beckoned, come and feel with me. The wind laughed, extending an offer. The snow’s arms were held wide open. And only the sun watched as Nesta Archeron gave herself over to winter.

~*~

The ice was her refuge. The cold, the snow, the sting of the wind. In the early fall, she would open a window in the hovels they stayed in or sneak out in the middle of the night. But as weeks passed, Illyria got colder. When Cassian was doing whatever he was here to do, she slipped out in threadbare dresses, thin tunics and pants.

The cold was a shock at first. She shivered. She ached. Her fingers lost feeling. Nesta always made sure to slip back inside well before Cassian came back. The heat of the cottage they were staying in was as much as a shock as the cold. Her skin burned, and for a moment, Nesta remembered what it was like to be alive.

It didn’t take up that much of her day. Nesta wasn’t that useless. She couldn’t be if she wanted. They hadn’t been sent here to sit around.

Feyre had sent her away. Her sister had cut her out of her perfect life, with that perfect husband, the perfect friends, that perfect house—

She growled to herself as she trudged home, pushing the intrusive thoughts away. No, Feyre had wanted her to do something, so she had sent Nesta to this godsforsaken land to live in squalor—and train.

The training that day had been especially brutal. As Nesta went about her chores, she ached everywhere. Her arms felt like they had weights still attached. Twisting her torso made her core bark in pain. But the training wasn’t a choice. Both Cassian and Feyre had made that clear.

Nesta made no friends among the other girls. She couldn’t even have tentative allies. They tolerated her presence because Cassian was there and the High Lord had ordered it. When they trained, she was barely acknowledged. Fine by her.

The hisses and stares followed Nesta as she trudged through the camp. The females would be more hostile than the males, who would either sneer or ignore her. Typical. They all hated her, but only the females knew how to cut without a blade.

These days, she barely noticed as she went about her chores. Fetching water by the bucketful and dumping it in a tub for use throughout the day. Gathering firewood and chopping it. Sweeping the ashes from the fireplace and stacking in more logs. Doing laundry. They could have paid someone else to do these tasks. In another life, Nesta would have expected someone to do it for her. But the Illyrians didn’t like charity. And Nesta needed to keep her hands busy.

She had finished building the new fire, this time sparking it easily. Cassian—much to her ire—had taught her everything she knew about how to survive in this place. He was the one doing chores with her in those first weeks, when she had dragged her feet and snarled. They had snapped and fought, almost coming to blows. But he never left, and the routine stayed every day.

He still handled food though.

With nothing left to do, Nesta slipped out the door, rounding the house so that she was near the back, where no one could see her. There, she stripped out of her leathers. The cold bit. She shivered. And she waited for the cold to make her feel. To spark desperation, the instinctual urge to fight. Her body would numb, but her soul would flicker to life.

She had settled into this routine well. To well.

She was back inside well before Cassian came home, sitting at the kitchen table. Her eyes followed him as he prepared dinner, but he wasn’t unnerved.

“I heard you beat Nicasa in sparring.” He said over their simple dinner.

“Did I?” Nesta didn’t remember names well.

“Good job.” Cassian said. And that was that. Or so she thought. “I’m leaving for a while.”

“Oh?” It wasn’t unusual.

“There’s been more disturbances.” He said. “I’ll be gone for a week. Maybe more.”

She depended on Cassian for some things, but Nesta could get by just fine on her own. So she returned to eating. He didn’t seem put off by her lack of reaction. Probably used to it by now.

The routine changed. But Nesta didn’t. She trained, did her chores, made her own food, and kept to herself. The stares and whispers followed her, and she tried to tell herself that she was getting better at ignoring them.

One day though, the attention was not on her for a change. There was a commotion in the middle of the camp as Nesta walked home from gathering some firewood in the morning. Her eyes lingered for just a moment. Twenty minutes later, when she was fetching water, she walked past a clump of gossiping ladies.

“It’s too early—”

“They don’t have the herbs, you know that.”

“Lyudmala could stop it if…”

A frustrated growl. “Well, she can’t!”

Despite her apathy, Nesta’s curiosity got the best of her. “What’s going on?”

The heads of the females swerved comically to gape at her. These weren’t the females who trained—they were wives, daughters, laundresses and cooks. Yet their ire towards Nesta wasn’t dimmed by that fact.

Only one female seemed to have the patience to deal with Nesta, and even then her words were spat. “Nousha is bleeding. She is close to going into labor. It’s more than a month too early.”

Something twisted in Nesta’s gut. She was cold, unfeeling, but she wasn’t entirely heartless. “My condolences.”

One of the females snorted, whispering something to her friend. The other rolled her eyes. But Nesta ignored then when another spoke up. “I don’t suppose you have some healing powers locked away?” Derision. Scorn. But a tiniest glimmer of hope.

“No.” Nesta crushed that hope. “Nothing can be done?”

“There is an herb.” The female who spoke first shrugged her shoulders. She was older, weathered and worn with life. “But Lyudmala ran out. And the snows have likely killed it.” For weeks now, the snow and ice had covered the ground. Tall pines survived this kind of weather—little else.

“It grows on the mountains.” Another female said, almost to herself. Nesta could tell this one was torn up. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. “But none of the warriors will fly.”

One of her companions made an irritated noise. “The only mountain where the plant may grow still is Ramiel. You would ask someone to go to Ramiel?”

The female sniffed, wiping her eyes. Sympathy was in short supply here in Illyria, but the older female made a sympathetic sound. “Go to your sister. She needs you right now.” With another sniff, the girl left.

Ramiel. There was an herb that could help on Ramiel, but no one here would go. Fae and their superstitions. They would let a babe be born too early, risk the life of the child and mother. Just because those sensitive Illyrians wouldn’t use their wings and fly.

“No one will fly up?” Nesta crossed her arms. “At all? Not even to save a life?”

“Lives are lost every day, girl.” The old female snarled. But there was a weariness there. “Childbirth is not easy. But Nousha is strong. She will likely survive.”

Silence descended on the group. Nesta never believed in any natural camaraderie among females or “shared experience”. But in this moment…they could all feel for a young mother who was scared and in pain. Nesta looked up at the grey sky, and the snow that was falling faster by the minute. No help would be arriving soon. If Cassian knew, he would likely fly all the way to Velaris to get Madja…but Cassian wasn’t here.

A harsh sigh broke the silence. “Nousha’s husband would probably try to go, but his comrades would stop him. Thankfully for us, he’s with the General. It is the greatest sacrilege to step foot on Ramiel outside of the Blood Rite. No Illyrian is permitted. Nousha would be even more distraught if he tried and was killed.”

Nesta felt bad for the poor woman. Or maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe her husband was the bad sort. Never know what you might get in Illyria. These people…

She was not one of them. “I’m not Illyrian. I’ll go.”

The women looked at her with wide eyes. The old female laughed. “No one is allowed to touch Ramiel. It doesn’t matter if you are Illyrian or not. You’ll be damned.”

“I’m already damned.” Nesta said. “I’ll get someone to fly me to the base of the mountain. Then I’ll climb.” Her voice held conviction. She would not be swayed, and the other females knew it. They shared a look amongst themselves and then sprung into action.

Maybe they didn’t like Nesta. Maybe they thought she was a witch. But she was willing to go to great lengths to save their friend.

“It will be at the top of the mountain.” The healer stood in Nesta’s home, watching as the females laid out their warmest clothes and packed a bag for Nesta. “Where the magic is strongest.” She showed sketches of the plants she needed. If Nesta was making the trip, might as well gather as much as she could.

She put on layers upon layers, wrapping her fingers individually and then stuffing them into two pairs of gloves. A shawl was wrapped around her neck and shoulders, and then she tugged on a sweater over it. Nesta was given the thickest socks, a sturdy satchel, and the hopes of the females in this camp.

As luck would have it, Nicasa was the one that the females fetched to fly her. When she saw Nesta bundled up, she snorted. “You?”

“Well, you certainly aren’t doing it.” Nesta snapped. “Didn’t think Illyrians were such cowards.” Of course, everyone in the room stiffened. But her remark went unchallenged.

“Come on then,” Nicasa said. “I’ll fly to Ramiel as fast as I can, but you won’t have all day.”

“How much time does Nousha have?” Nesta asked.

The healer frowned. “It’s slow going. No labor pains have started. But…two days. At most.”

“Right.” Nesta sighed, adjusting her gloves. What was she thinking? “Let’s go.”

Nicasa was true to her word. She carried Nesta through Illyria, past staggering mountains and forests. Monsters hid between the pines. Nesta hoped that Nicasa wouldn’t have to make a crash landing. Her wings beat steadily for now, but Nesta wasn’t light and Nicasa hadn’t trained for that long. The flight got easier as the neared the mountain, where the snow storm hadn’t reached.

“This is where I drop you!” Nicasa shouted over the wind, starting her descent. “Tomorrow, I’ll start circling the mountain to pick you up!”

Nesta nodded as Nicasa swooped. The landing jarred her, and she stumbled a bit. When she regained her balance, Nicasa was gone.

The cold was already getting to her. But Nesta was familiar with its pain by now.

Within minutes of scaling the mountain, her breaths came in pants. Each exhale made the scarf around her neck wet and warm. She paused for a moment, daring to pull down the fabric around her mouth. The chill was a bit of a shock. She exhaled, then inhaled mightily.

Nesta’s hands flew to her mouth, stifling a muffled cry. The cold—it was so bad that her throat felt scraped raw, that her teeth ached with it. She hastily pulled the scarf back up and trudged forward. Keep moving. Keep warm. Get to the top. Get the plant. Get back down.

Her muscles ached with every step. When she looked up, the mountain seemed to only get taller. When she looked back, the height made her dizzy. Mostly, she tried not to look at all. The snow glinting off the ice burned her eyes.

Every bit of skin was covered, but she could almost feel the sweat freezing on her. Every once in a while, she would open her bag to take a swing from her water skin. But within an hour, the water had turned to ice. Nesta filled the water skin with snow and then hastily tucked it under a layer of clothes. It was as close as she could get to her body without putting herself at risk.

One step after another. Nesta kept going, repeating her plan to herself until that wasn’t enough. She switched to cursing everyone and everything. The Illyrians. Cassian. Rhysand. Feyre. Her father. That High Lord who had broken her sister, who had taken her and gotten them into this mess in the first place. Hybern, who had ripped Nesta from her bed and turned her into a monstrosity. That _damn_ Cauldron.

Nesta cursed herself plenty. For her stupidity. For the new body that she hated so much—that couldn’t even do what she needed it to do.

Keep going. Keep going, keep going, keep going.

The snow seeped through her layers, but it hadn’t reached her skin yet. She could feel it though. Melting slowly, freezing again. The sun was so bright. Her vision wavered.

_Keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing_

She stumbled once or twice, but always scrambled up. If she fell and didn’t get up right away, she was afraid she’d stay on the ground and freeze. Be covered in snow. Be lost.

She was such an idiot. She was worthless. What was she doing with her life? Drinking and fucking and doing what her little sister thought best. What had happened to her?

Well, not so useless now. Maybe she would actually succeed and save a life. Do something good for once, instead of just being a specter of death. Hope fluttered, somewhere deep inside.

She really was a worthless fool.

The snow crunched underfoot. It wasn’t too deep—only coming up to mid-calf. Her boots were, thankfully, taller. Her breathing was still labored. The scarf covering her mouth and nose was warm and wet with spit and snot, but she didn’t dare remove it. The spit would freeze her mouth closed.

Nesta squinted, looking up.

The peak was closer.

Hatred fueled her steps. Agony. When that ran out, she turned to spite. To prove she could do something. And after that well was dry, Nesta walked on in desperation. One more step. Closer to the top. Closer to saving those two lives. Inconsequential, in the end. Just like the lives of her mother and father and all those people—human and faerie—that had died on that battlefield. In the end, they were all the same. That king was no greater than a child when his body was cold. His head was not heavier in her hand because he had held more power.

Nesta climbed. The sun began its descent, casting long shadows. This time of year, Nesta knew what time it would be where she used to live. In the human lands. She factored in their location on the continent and subtracted an hour. The old calculations came back to her. Her father had been the Prince of Merchants, well-traveled and well versed in geography and the changing nature of different ports. She had picked up some. Before her world fell apart, that is.

Because they were far north, the sun would set earlier. By this time, the girls would be wrapping up their training. Females would be in the middle of chores, cooking for families. There were few males in camp at the moment, but they would also be finishing training and tending to some household tasks.

Nesta looked ahead, easier now that she was in shadow. She was almost to the top.

She walked. She climbed. She scrambled forward on hands and knees. When it got too steep, her heart pounded in her throat as she looked to the next handhold, felt for the next place to put her foot. Her body shook. Her lungs rattled. Her nails tore. She climbed.

Nesta figured she was at the top when she saw that odd black stone, felt its power rattling in her bones. There was no snow to be found, and it was slightly warmer.

The stone didn’t matter though. Not when she was freezing. Deftly, Nesta slung off her pack. She pitched her meager tent next to a rock face to block some of the wind. The tent itself was thin, designed to keep snow away more than it was to keep the warmth in. That was what the sleeping bag was for. Sewn tight, stuffed with wool, it would cocoon Nesta and hopefully keep her alive through the night.

Her bag held meager traveling food. A tough jerky made from some unidentifiable meat. Some bland crackers. She ate her dinner quickly. Before going to bed, she filled the water skin with more snow then brought it into the sleeping bag with her.

Maybe some of those lessons on survival hadn’t been useless.

It didn’t take much for Nesta to sleep. She figured she got a solid night’s rest, because when she woke, she was immediately alert. There was no time to waste.

The supplies were packed away efficiently. The rest of her food was eaten. Then Nesta searched the odd peak for the plants Lyudmala had showed her. She stuffed handfuls of plants in her bag. They could have been weeds for all she knew. But they looked right, so she took them.

When she had stuffed the bag, she began the trek down. Nesta thought going down would be faster and easier than going up. It was faster, but certainly not easier.

Her joints screamed in pain, already abused and under severe stress as she made her way down. More than once, she tripped and tumbled.

Keep going. The hard part is over now.

The sun was bright. The snow reflected the light, blinding her. There were dark clouds in the distance. She would have to beat those to the bottom.

Nesta took another step, and her foot gave out under her. She didn’t even have time to cry out before she tumbled down the slope. Ice scraped her exposed skin, snow got under her layers. There was no direction. No up and down. No ground beneath. No sky above.

When she finally rolled to a stop, Nesta couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. It took another moment for her head to stop spinning.

Damn it, snow was everywhere. It would melt against her now and then freeze when the temperatures dropped or just make her a soggy mess. She scrambled upright, trying to brush herself off. Her limbs shook. Her hands, wrapped as they were, were useless.

She unwrapped them. Just for a moment.

Her fingers lost feeling within seconds, but Nesta kept straightening her clothes and brushing off snow and ice. The cold burned.

One hand raised to be wrapped back up, but Nesta paused. Her fingers shook. She couldn’t feel them. But she could see the purple tinge at the tips, the red angry skin.

No time to think on that now.

Ramiel was cold and isolated. Everywhere Nesta looked, there was snow and barren peaks. That is, when she could look somewhere without hurting her eyes.

It was only an hour later when she took another tumble. This time, it took longer to get up. She stood up slowly, then pitched to the side, landing back in the ice.

“Get up,” she gasped. “Get up!” With a grunt, she stood. Walked slowly. Fell to her knees. Crawled. Stood. And kept walking.

The cold burned. Sunlight glinting off snow blinded her, making her stumble and fall and veer to the side. Nesta couldn’t feel her toes or her fingers. Her legs shook with every step. She tripped, fell, rolled down Ramiel’s treacherous slopes. And kept going.

It wasn’t spite or pride or hate that kept her going now. Not even desperation. After a while there was no room for thoughts in her brain, let alone the ugly ones. Nesta only knew that there was salvation at the bottom of this mountain. And despite everything that had happened, she wanted to be saved.

Nesta could tell she was nearing the bottom when the snow thinned, mixing with rocks. She slipped on icy pebbles, careening down until she could grab a boulder and stop. Was this far enough? No. She had to keep walking. Nesta didn’t even know where she was supposed to walk now.

A distant sound of flapping wings caught her attention. She squinted up, hissing as muscles pulled and strained. She had been hunched over for so long, everything hurt. Or she was just frozen.

Nicasa swooped down, slowly making a controlled descent. For the first time in what felt like forever, Nesta breathed a sigh of relief. There was just this ravine to go through, and then she could get to Nicasa. She eagerly stepped forward, intent on getting off this damn mountain—

And she slipped again.

This time, Nesta screamed as she was pulled with pebbles, rocks, boulders, chunks of stone the size of a house. They rolled down with her, a thunderous roar. She was pelted from all sides, but eventually the rocks came to rest. Nesta rolled and rolled, hearing the thunder and cracking fizzle out.

And then the ravine echoed with a crack and a scream.

“Nesta!”

Her head swam. Her stomach churned. Her leg was on fire. Forget about losing feeling in her toes—she could feel every part of her body just fine now. Blood raced through her, her breathing was fast and shallow, her vision blurry.

But she could make out Nicasa hovering near her, horror on her face.

Nesta knew that her leg was trapped between two boulders. She knew Nicasa wasn’t strong enough to move them. But at least someone could live today.

“Take it,” she rasped. “The bag.”

Though she eyed the ground warily, Nicasa landed. Nesta’s body shook as she maneuvered the satchel off her body and handed it over.

“I shouldn’t just leave you.”

“I’m asking you to.”

The two females shared a look. Then Nicasa was gone.

It wouldn’t be so bad to die here.

Still, Nesta gathered her strength to rise on her elbows, take a look at the damage. But as soon as her head lifted, a wave a nausea wracked her. She turned just enough so she wasn’t sick all over herself, then let her head fall. Blood roared through her veins. She could feel her pulse in her head, fingers, neck, feel her heart pound.

As the light slowly faded and the heavy grey clouds marched closer, Nesta blinked lazily. Tried to rise again, and was sick again. Watery bile stung her throat. She shook with cold and started to lose feeling in her limbs.

Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes. This couldn’t be how her story ended. She was wretched and hurt, but she didn’t want to die. Nesta wanted to live. Somewhere in her broken soul she still had hope.

But her leg was trapped between two boulders. Her body was wrecked from her climb. And the grey clouds loomed closer. At some point she passed out, and when she awoke again the stars were winking in the sky, just having come out. If she had to die in the Night Court, best to do it now. At night, when everything was more beautiful.

“Look what you’ve gotten yourself into,” A voice tsked.

Nesta blinked hard, sure that the woman in front of her wasn’t real. “Mother?”

“Of course I’m not real.” She rolled her eyes, just like Nesta remembered her doing. “You’re dying, Nesta. Hallucinating.”

“Oh.” Nesta croaking. “Makes sense.”

Her mother perched on a rock, fixing her dress around her. It was very human, with many layers and voluminous skirts. Nesta remembered it well. She had wanted to wear that dress when she was little. The woman in front of her seemed plucked right out of a memory. “Oh, I probably am. Your head is just remembering something vividly, though why you are remembering _me_ is anyone’s guess.”

Nesta snorted, though it was a feeble sound. “You’re no help.”

“No, I’m not.” Her mother shrugged. “But is there anyone better to lead to you to the afterlife? You don’t really care about me. You hate your father as much as you love him. And there’s no one else in your life that has died and made a particularly large impression.”

“Why are you here?”

“It’s your brain, lovely.”

It would be just like her brain to torment her with her dead, stupid mother. But it did make her feel less alone. If she had to have anyone by her side at the end…well, a hallucination of her dead mother was better than nothing. “How much longer?”

“An hour, maybe. You’re already hallucinating, so you’ll completely lose it before then. But an hour…until it’s all over.”

Nesta sighed, relaxing into the rock. It wasn’t cold anymore. She couldn’t feel much of her body, but she was thankful that it wasn’t cold. In fact, she was a little hot. But it was too much effort to remove her layers. Maybe if she closed her eyes now, she would slip into sleep. And never wake up.

“How are your sisters?”

Or maybe her mother wouldn’t let her. “Fine. Feyre is married, powerful, special. Her husband is even more powerful and special. Elain is happy.”

Her mother’s mouth twisted. “Strange. It was supposed to be you who married first. You’re the eldest. Or maybe Elain, she was always more agreeable. But I’m surprised that Feyre made herself a match.”

“Yeah, well,” Nesta rasped. “We’re not human anymore. I can be single for the rest of my life.”

“But you don’t want to.” Her mother knelt down next to her. “You don’t want to be alone, Nesta.”

“No, I don’t.” She admitted it to herself. After all, there was no one else to hear.

A soft hand ran through her hair. Strange. Her mother was never this gentle or attentive when she was alive. “Only a little longer now, lovely.”

“No one’s coming?”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” she said. “I know you wanted him to come.”

Nesta didn’t question how her mother knew she was thinking about Cassian. After all of this, she was thinking of him. And her sisters, and all the regrets she had. Because when stripped down bare, that’s what Nesta was. A pile of hopes and dreams, pounded down by the realities of this world until all she had was regret and pain. The ice covering her body, freezing her blood, reached her heart. And Nesta let go of that little bit of hope.

“Sleep, now,” her mother said. “I’ll be there when you wake.”

Her mother disappeared, but that was fine. The stars were bright, and Nesta wasn’t cold anymore. Her eyelids felt heavy.

No, this wasn’t such a bad way to die.

“NESTA!”

No one could let her rest, could they?

The powerful, distinct boom of wings felt like it was coming from a mile away. Maybe it was. But Nesta knew that sound. Too bad he was too late.

Pebbles pelted her as he skidded, landing harshly. “Nesta, you idiot—Nesta?”

Her breath came in shallow rasps, but she managed to turn her head enough to face him. She couldn’t really see him clearly, but those glowing red siphons were a dead giveaway. Was it just her, on the brink of death, or were they glowing more harshly?

“No. No, no, no.” Cassian knelt down beside her. “Cauldron, Nesta, your tears froze on your face.”

He was trying to get her to snap back. To say something about him seeing her cry. But she blinked slowly. It was hard to open her eyes again. “S’okay. M’not cold.”

She could see the dawning realization on his face. His siphons glowed again, and he scanned her body. “Right. Fine, the first thing to do is to get you out. This’ll hurt.” He had to be speaking to himself, because Nesta couldn’t care less.

The rocks groaned tremendously when the red siphons flared, and Nesta felt some of the pressure ease off her crushed leg. It didn’t hurt. Nesta watched Cassian’s face as he inspected the leg, the rest of her body.

The night sky was nice to die under. But it was even nicer to have a friend by her side.

Nesta sighed, eyes fluttering once more. She heard Cassian roaring, felt him shaking her none to gently. The last thing she saw was the sky above turning black and the stars winking out.

~*~

The air was warm. Soft fabric rubbed against aching skin. Though she didn’t know where she was, Nesta felt safe. It was enough to get her to open her eyes.

She hissed against the light, trying to raise a hand to block it out.

“Sorry!” The light dimmed. Nesta blinked, finally able to see an apologetic Feyre sitting in a chair beside her bed. For moment they just stared at each other, not sure what to say. Nesta thought about speaking for about a second before deciding to just not try. Every part of her body hurt. It wasn’t worth the effort.

Feyre opened her mouth, then closed it again. She drilled holes into Nesta’s head with her gaze. Finally, she spoke. “That was such a stupid thing to do.”

If she had enough energy to laugh, Nesta would have. “No shit.”

“It was also kind of heroic,” Feyre said. “But mostly stupid. You could have died.”

Nesta didn’t bother correcting her sister. She nearly did die. She probably should be dead, but it seemed like this world wasn’t done with her yet.

Feyre seemed on the precipice of asking something, but Nesta had no patience. “Spit it out.”

“Did you want to die?”

She wanted to say no. Up until the very end, she would have said no. But Nesta had to think. She had been prepared to die, but…she hadn’t _wanted_ it. Then again, she hadn’t actively wanted anything in months. “No. But I don’t have many desires anyway.”

They sat in silence some more. Again, Feyre broke it. “I don’t know how to help you. Sending you to Illyria may have been a mistake. But I…I just don’t know.”

Her sister admitting she had made a mistake? Nesta cracked a grin, a harsh thing. “Neither do I. So when am I going back?”

“You’re not.” Feyre said. “Didn’t I just say we made a mistake?”

“Your husband doesn’t want me in this city.” He hadn’t said it aloud, but Nesta knew. Rhysand hated her.

Feyre snarled. “My husband can go fuck himself. You’re _my_ sister.”

The eyebrows on Nesta’s head rose comically high. What was going on between the two of them? Catching her expression, Feyre sighed. “He has good intentions, but he’s…not rational when it comes to me.”

Nesta muttered something about dumb males.

Nodding along absentmindedly, Feyre continued. “We thought sending you to Illyria might have helped. But it’s been months, and…I don’t know. Do you feel different?”

A near-death experience should have changed her. It should have made her feel more inclined to live, to pull herself out of the hole she had fallen into. But all Nesta felt was a weariness in her body that matched the one in her soul. “A little different. But not in the way that counts.”

“When I…feel heavy,” Feyre began slowly. “There are a couple of things that help. Having others around me for support is nice. Remembering how strong I am. I thought those things may help you too. I thought being with our family and the training would help. But they didn’t.”

“I’m not like you.” Nesta said.

“No,” Feyre agreed. “You’re not. So we have to find something else.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “We?”

“We.” Feyre affirmed. “Staring now. Welcome to your new bedroom. I know you like your apartment across the city, and we can still keep it. But there’s a place for you here too. Besides, you aren’t leaving until Madja says you can.”

Nesta grimaced, feeling all the aches and pains. “How bad is it?”

“Bruised and broken ribs. A shattered leg. Sun burns on exposed skin. You bumped your head pretty well too. And your fingers and toes…they were kind of disgusting.” Feyre explained. “If Rhys hadn’t shown up when he did…”

“What?” She must have blacked out for that part of the story.

“Rhys…he doesn’t linger in minds. But he still keeps an eye out. An ear? Uh, anyway.” She said, choosing her words carefully. “He felt Cassian’s pain and immediately winnowed to you. I didn’t even know what was happening until they brought you home.”

Nesta stared up at the ceiling. Rhys wouldn’t abandon her. He wasn’t that cruel. But she still found herself a little surprised that he had come to her aid.

“Rest, we can talk later.” Feyre stood. “Relax a little before things get complicated again.”

Nesta ignored her. “I saw our mother. When I was dying.”

Her sister looked like she didn’t know what to say. Gingerly, she sat. “I didn’t see anyone when I died. But my death was quicker.”

“Of all the people, I saw her.” Nesta said. That was the one thing she lingered on, despite everything that had happened in the past few days. “I was dying. I was feeling everything all at once. And she decides to show up.”

Feyre studied her. “You know why.” It wasn’t a question

“She wasn’t complicated. I knew how I felt about her.”

“Well, that’s someplace to start.”

**Author's Note:**

> So. Let me know what you think.
> 
> When you finish with ACOSF, I would love to chat and hear your thoughts! You can find me @thehaemanthus on tumblr. 
> 
> For those of you keeping up with my other stuff, the first draft of The Second Son is done. I will continue to work on it, but I really really hope I can start posting that soon.
> 
> (minor spoiler ahead, skip this paragraph). I like my name for the first Feysand baby much better, and I have to mentally refer to that child as "Niphrym" in my head so he doesn't feel like a weird stranger, lol. 
> 
> live once (once is enough) has more to give. I think it's best if I try and pump out that content faster now. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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